


Always

by Tinyshot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Contemplation, F/M, Favorite Ship, Flashbacks, Guesswork, Post-Canon, Unresolved Emotional Tension, What-If, Wild Guesses, don't get your hopes up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinyshot/pseuds/Tinyshot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows he made a mistake. And now it's time to correct it. </p><p>There is nowhere else to go. There is no one else in the world left to care for but one woman that he knows had left for the edge of the world. And he has to find her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His horse trudges through the muddy road, its hooves make chomping noises. Winter snows and icy rains turned the track into a complete mess. He wraps himself a bit tighter in the heavy cloak, trying to hold onto the fleeting warmth.

His is a lonesome road. He isn’t really in a hurry, but he is not going to stay and wait. If he is lucky, the pursuit is delayed by the sheer chaos that is King’s Landing right now. If there is any pursuit at all.

He isn’t really sure.

Is regicide considered to be one if one kills a usurper? Who would want to pursue him? Who would be the next king? Or Queen? He knows of the Targaryen girl setting her foot down in Westeros. Way south, in the Storm Lands. No doubt she would want him dead.

He killed her father, after all. Even if it was to save everyone.

Cersei's death still feels like an uneven core within him… yet it is not as bad as he thought it would be. He always thought they would leave this world as they have entered it - together.

It is not to be. He had to… he had to.

The cycle repeats itself.

He is not wearing Lannister armor. Red and gold, it would make him a target. He is traveling alone, and he is not a fighter he used to be. Not anymore. Part of him thinks he is a fool for even attempting such a journey on his own.

But who would he bring with him, _Bronn_? There is no money at the end of this road, only cold and, very possibly, a death sentence. Nothing that would interest an upstart sellsword. He got his highborn maid. His lands. His peace, for as long as it would last before the Dragon Queen comes trampling down.

He left alone, in the middle of the night, as soon as the deed was done. Fleeing, dead and empty inside. Perhaps that was the exact feeling Tyrion had, leaving King’s Landing for good.

He is pretty sure his way back is cut off too. There is no regret, however. It may come later if there is any ‘later’ to be had. He is close to Moat Cailin now. The North starts here.

He will be seen, no doubt. Maybe stopped. But he is wearing a non-descript armor now, his gold - and also silver now - hair covered under a helmet, his beard is thick and unkempt. No banner. No insignia on his armor. Just a warrior of an unknown army, traveling up North.

His lie is simple and old as the world itself - he was wounded, healed, now coming back home. He says he is a Manderly, for he knows he doesn’t look much like a northerner and hopes that the house known for not originating from the North would be enough to fool the guards. It is.

The men at Moat Cailin let him pass. He thanks them and rides through. Not risks to stop for long, lest his lie would come to a test.

Glory’s hooves now drown in snow, and the horse struggles. Their way is still long. The North is immense; as big as all the other six kingdoms combined. Yet there is nowhere else for him to go.

 _You could have gone to the Rock_ , his mind whispers. Where everything would have reminded him of Cersei, he retorts to himself. No. It’s out of the question. There is nowhere to go, there is no one else left in the entire fucked up world he cares about.

Except for one person.

Gently swaying in the saddle, he drifts into the memory of that day, and it seems to have happened a lifetime ago. The day he knew.

 

They stand in front of each other, stiff and formal. As always. They argue, as always. Too many things have happened in their past that makes them clash, time and again, even though they believe in the same things.

The cruel world had just happened to put them on the opposite sides of the cyvasse board. As long as they talk politics, there would be no peace. And so he stops.

He is puzzled when she unbuckles her belt. Her broad face looks like she is in pain but tries to hide it. She thrusts the sword at him, and her hand shakes a bit, which is unbelievable. Hers is the steadiest hand he knows.

“You gave it to me for a purpose. I have achieved that purpose.”

Something shifts in the air, the tension of the conversation dissipates; the tension of uneasy forced friendship; of them being former enemies; of them being present enemies, in fact. It changes into a different kind of tension, and he can’t quite put his finger on it.

But he knows one thing - it’s even more unbearable. The silence stretches, becoming awkward, and he makes no move to take the sword. He looks up and meets her eyes. He knows they are blue, but in the tent’s shadow, they look dark and deep and infinitely sad.

“It’s yours,” he says quietly. The words come out unexpectedly soft, sincere and earnest, even for him. Like…

Like he is making a confession. A _love_ confession.

He quickly swallows a sudden lump in his throat and continues. “It will always be yours.”

That only strengthens this feeling. He suddenly feels stupid. It’s a _sword_ , not a wedding gift. A good sword, a great sword. Valyrian steel sword. But just a sword…

Isn’t it?

It’s not _._

He was a fighter, the greatest swordsman of his generation. The fight, the battle, the challenge, it was his very being. It defined him before the whole kingslaying act. It still defines him after that, just not in the other people’s eyes.

He is a cripple now, and will never do this beautiful weapon justice.

And so he gave his sword to her. His sword, even though he never fought with it. He was and still is a fighter, that doesn’t change. But he gave the weapon up, for her.

Fighting is his soul, his talent, his… his _heart_. And it is hers now, embodied in this magnificent weapon.

 _Gods_. If he tries to confess this revelation now she might just punch the life out of him. Decorum and proprieties, honor and restraint forbid it, to both of them. It’s not something they can ever say out loud or acknowledge to anyone, even to themselves.

This sword is the closest thing they can ever have.

His traitorous heart pinches. She has a weird look on her face, and for a second he thinks she might just say something. She does not.

He follows her silently out of the tent and almost bumps into her when she stops suddenly and turns to face him.

“One more thing, ser Jamie.”

He raises an eyebrow and lets himself smile a bit.

“Yes, _lady_ Brienne?” His tone is slightly mocking, he can’t stop himself. Just slightly, reminding her that they are long past the time when they addressed each other by their proper title.

She doesn’t smile back, she never does.

“Should I fail to persuade the Blackfish to surrender… and if you attack the castle, honor compels me to fight for Sansa’s kin.”

“Of course it does,” he agrees. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She is a fighter, just like he is. She also is the only person in the world who believes in his honor.

“To fight you.”

He blinks. There will be no fight, she will just break him. But… will she be able to live with herself after that?

Of course, it will never come that far. His soldiers would kill her long before that. But will he be able to live with himself knowing that he caused her death?

They have a weird bond, the one that runs deeper than that of blood and family, and even love. But cruel fate decided to put them on the opposite sides of the game. He drops his gaze for a moment, before looking her in the eyes again.

They are iridescent blue in the pale, murky Riverlands daylight.

He wants to say the words that he can not. Not in the position they are in, not with where their loyalties lie. Not in the roles and ranks they hold. And those are simple words, really.

_Stay. Don’t go. Don’t leave me._

Yet they are impossible to say out loud. He can’t. She can’t.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He says softly, barely louder than a whisper. A reflection of sorrow that overcomes his soul. There is no denial. They will fight if it comes to that.

They will live with the consequences of that fight for as long as they can bear.

Her lip quivers just a little bit, and before he can say anything she storms out without another word or a glance. Jamie watches her elbow her way through the camp and fights an urge to chase her. She doesn’t want to let him see her tears. Tears are a weakness.

In that moment he knows that she feels the same.

Yet they can’t… they simply can’t act on it. Not in this life.

Later that night he takes the castle. It was a sleepless night for him, as he waits for the soldiers to disarm the Tully forces and ensure that Riverrun is safe and secure. He waits and waits and waits, and soon there is pale morning light in the sky. It comes almost as a surprise.

A soldier approaches and he has to steel himself. He learns that Brynden the Blackfish is dead, he died fighting. He waits for another name.

It never comes.

Dismissing the soldier, he takes a deep breath and looks down at the Trident, where he and she once sailed, escaping for King’s Landing.

It feels like he knew he would see another boat there. And even from this distance, he knows it’s her. Her blond hair is unmistakable. It feels like she knew that he is watching. Like his gaze is strong enough to reach through the distance and the light morning fog and gently tap her on the shoulder.

He doesn’t know if she would guess from this distance that it is him, and so he raises his golden hand. It catches a light gleam from the pale light. He moves his hand from side to side a bit.

She raises her hand to him in a silent goodbye. She knows.

And he knows in this very moment with sudden clarity, that he had made a mistake. Another one in the long row of mistakes he had made in his miserable life.

Because the woman that knows and understands him, believes in him, the woman that had seen him at his best and at his worst… she is not back at King’s Landing. She is right there, in that little boat down the river. So close and yet so far, being rowed away further and further by her squire.

And it’s too late.

 

He is awakened from his daydream - daymare? - by the barking of the hounds and trampling of the hooves. He spies gray and white Stark banner. He stops and waits.

“State your business, stranger,” a man in the studded leather armor demands, his eyes are suspicious.

He slowly reaches up and takes his helmet off. Dropping it into the snow, he looks up.

“My name is Jamie Lannister.”

He doesn’t have to say anything else. Within but a minute, his hands are tied, his mouth is gagged and his captors are taking him into a large encampment by the riverbank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would be a short story. I couldn't get it out of my head, and so I had to write it.  
> Jamie and Brienne are my absolute favorite ship of the entire show. I would love to know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

He is no stranger to the Stark captivity. The gruel is thinner, the air is colder, but the faces sour all the same when they so much as look at him. He is brought further and further into the North, and days blur into a white haze as they travel through the snows.

The encampment he was first brought into is waiting for the King to muster whatever remaining forces there were are to arrive, then travel south. The King and not the Queen, he wonders. What King? There are no more Starks left. There are, in fact, no more Kings left, only Queens and even those are in short supply these days.

His question is answered soon enough when the grey walls of Winterfell arise amidst the snows, it’s round towers tall and solemn. He recalls the last time he came here, dressed in Kingsguard white, riding next to a carriage his sister was in, in the very middle of the royal procession. It was summer. He had both of his hands back then. He was whole, in more ways than one.

The gates and walls bear the grim signs of a recent siege. Scorch marks, bloodstains. The heavy gates are fixed recently, with fresh wood covering the holes. He wonders briefly what could have made them, this isn’t the damage a battering ram can make.

The great hall of Starks is dark, no fire lit in the cold and empty hearth. And there he stands, the King in the North whose name is Snow.

Well, it’s nice to see the bastard made something of himself. He doesn’t say that out loud, however, no matter how tempting that is. No matter what he says, people always take it wrong. The white direwolf by the boy’s side bares its teeth but doesn’t growl.

The next boy-King doesn’t worry him. Nor does his auburn-haired sister, who is sitting at the dais, her eyes cold and sharp like daggers. Though he is reminded of her Tully mother, this one is even farther gone. Nothing is left inside of her but a wolf’s grin. Good for her.

No, it’s her sworn sword he looks at. Even from where he is standing, he can see that she is dismayed. He is not supposed to be here, and she is right. He is not supposed to be captured, but he knew it was the surest way to find the Stark girl. And where the Stark girl is, she will be.

He stares at the lady knight, and is almost startled when the Bastard of Winterfell, now its King, starts to speak, his tone is ice and acid.

“Fancy seeing you here, Kingslayer. Or should I call you _Queenslayer_ now? You’re long ways from home.”

“King Snow. I have to admit, I am a _bit_ surprised.” He returns the favor. The boy is good, but he has never been to a real court. “To see the proud northern lords rallying behind a bastard. I always thought they’d eat their own beards first.”

The boy’s face is an unmoving mask. He now wears his hair just like Ned Stark used to, no doubt to remind the lords of who he is. Play on the family resemblance. Nice touch.

Perhaps he’d make a good King after all. Can’t be worse than Robert or Aerys, the bar is for kinghood is set pretty low.

“Why are you here, Kingslayer? You must have had a reason to ride this far north.”

“I still do.”

“Then speak.”

“I’m not here for you.”

Snow turns his head, glancing over the shoulder at his half-sister who rises from her seat, the sound of wood scraping stone is deafening in the empty hall.

“And not for you, lady Stark.”

They are puzzled now. He smirks. What a priceless sight.

His smile falters when he sees her frown deepen, her hand clutching the handle of Oathkeeper so tight it shakes a bit with tension.

“Spit it out already,” Snow demands, and there is a casual authority in his voice. He’s not pretending to have power, he _has_ power; he is not trying to be a King, he is a King. Wonders never cease.

He walks forward, and Snow reaches for his sword, but it’s clear enough that he is no threat. His hands and bound, and even if they weren’t he is unarmed. Un _arm_ ed, heh.

He walks past the boy - no, they young man - and towards the dais, but doesn’t stop in front of the Stark girl. No, he takes two more steps to the side, where _she_ is standing, tall and solemn and silent.

So close, but so incredibly far, as is always the case with them. He meets her eyes, and, holding her gaze, kneels.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth,” he addresses her in full title, and he may have mocked her before for doing the same, they are not alone and what he must say... He needs to make sure she knows how important that is for him.

Silence in the hall is so thick it can be cut with a knife. She makes no move to acknowledge him in any way. She may as well be a statue. He musters all the courage he has left.

“I came to beg your forgiveness, my lady. For everything I’ve done, for everything I’ve said that hurt you. I was wrong.”

He waits for an answer, but by the look of it, she is too shocked to say anything. Red blotches rise up from her neck and overtake her face as she blushes and nervously glances from side to side as if looking for an opening to disappear. There is nowhere to run, though. To the left and behind of her is the thick stone wall, to the right sits her lady, and he is blocking the front. He waits for an answer.

She is almost completely red by the time she reaches her hand to him and tries to drag him up from his knees, to make him stand up. He smiles and makes no move. She is not the only one who can be stubborn.

She trades a glance with the Stark girl who looks highly amused and blushes even deeper.

“Whatever your intentions were, Kingslayer, you are an enemy,” Snow says, and the awkward silence gives way to a cold and deadly one. “Good deed does not erase a bad one. You have done many wrongs, and you will answer for them.”

He looks down. He knew it will come to that. Bloody Starks and their bloody honor.

“Resources are scarce and winter is here. We cannot afford to keep prisoners. Say your goodbyes. You will be executed on the morrow.”

With that, King Snow leaves the room, white direwolf trailing his steps, and Stark girl follows too. Before she leaves, however, she turns to her sworn sword.

“Brienne, if you would escort Kingslayer to the dungeons.”

They are left alone, and finally, he rises from his knees. They hurt a bit from standing on the cold stone floor. Dungeon cell will be no better, he suspects. It matters not, he is a dead man walking.

She stares at him, as if in disbelief. Her big mouth pressed into a tight line, but he can see the twitching in her cheek. The little ticks, the tiny, barely noticeable cracks in her composure. She is holding on, but just barely.

“Brienne…” he says quietly, and she turns away.

“Follow me, ser Jamie.” Her voice is cracking, just like her mask, but she tries to seem strong. It puts a quiet smile on his face. He follows her through the dimly lit halls and they are so different from those he remembers visiting back when Ned Stark was still alive. This place looks so hostile. Forlorn.

“Brienne,” he tries again, but there is no answer.

They go down the winding stairs into the cold darkness of the dungeons. His breath turns into small puffs of steam, and he can see it setting on his beard, turning it silvery.

“Brienne.”

She finally turns to face him, and in the light of a single torch he can see a lonely wet trail glistening on her cheek.

“Your cell, ser Jamie. You should pray before King Jon serves justice on the morrow. You have that time.”

“Fuck the gods. Fuck the King. It’s not why I’m here.”

He shivers, and it’s not from the cold.

“I’m here because I wanted to see you before I die. I wanted to ask forgiveness before I die. I wanted you to know how I feel before I die. That’s my revelation, that’s my prayer. I don’t fear death.”

“How you feel…?” She chokes out, taking a step back. Her face disappears from the circle of light. He nods.

“I never should have let you go. I wanted to stop you. I didn’t… and I’m sorry that I didn’t. I’m sorry, Brienne.”

“I could never stay,” she answers quietly, her face is drowning in shadow and he can’t see it.

“I know. But I was a fool for staying quiet. I’m tired of being on the other side of the battlefield, Brienne. I wanted to at least say goodbye.”

“You’re a Lannister. You said you would never betray your family.”

“My family is dead. You are all I’ve got left.”

Truer words have never left his lips in his entire life. But he can sense that she does not believe him. He sighs heavily, looks down in defeat and walks into an open cell. The door closes behind him and he turns to look at her, her silhouette outlined by the torch behind her, glowing like a halo.

It’s a beautiful sight and he commits it to his memory, however short remainder of his life will be.

“That’s all I have. But please… stay. Don’t go. _Don’t leave me_.”

It’s a relief to finally say the words out loud. She watches him with a pained look on her face and for a second he thinks she might just say something. She does not. She turns on her heel and leaves him alone.

 

Through the small barred window, he watches as short winter day dies. Soon there is no light left outside of his cell, and the lonely torch spews sparks and dies out. It’s so dark he cannot see his own hand.

A fitting end to his life in the sun, the cold winter darkness. He shivers violently and wonders if the icy death will claim him before that fancy sword he saw on Snow’s hip.

He cannot sleep, nor would he want to. It’s his last hours in this world, no matter how god damn miserable. Might as well live them.

He hears footsteps on the stairs and looks up. Light travels towards him, and it’s her. His heart makes a ridiculous jump up to his throat, or so it feels like. She has this determined look on her face that he knows and loves.

 _Loves_. He does love it. Brings back memories.

She puts her torch in the holder on the wall instead of the burnt out one, unlocks the cell and walks in.

“Get up. You’re leaving.”

He raises his eyebrow at her, and no matter how pathetic his situation is, he smirks.

“Wait a second. You are _betraying_ lady Stark?”

“I’m _not_ betraying her. You’re leaving. Not I.”

“Jon Snow…”

“I did not swear fealty to King Jon. Only to lady Sansa. And she is not the one who wants you dead.”

He laughs out loud, earning himself a scowl.

“Now that is some clever move, my dear lady. They may make a fine player out of you yet.”

“This is not a game, Jamie.”

“Ah… there it is,” he smiles, an open, earnest smile that he had not given to anyone in a really long while, “finally. Took you long enough, _Brienne_.”

“You are wasting time.”

He shakes his head, his smile sombering. “Sadly, my lady, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. I came here to stay by your side, no matter how short the time.”

Her lip quivers, just like it did so long ago, in the Riverlands.

“You will _die_.”

“So be it.”

They stand close, just a breath away. In the cold of the dungeon, he can feel the heat of her body radiating out.

“I’m not leaving you. I treked across half of Westeros to get here. I have nowhere else to go.”

“But you must.”

“No. I refuse. I want to spend my last hours with you, Brienne. I’m not going to run again.”

Her eyes well with tears. She blinks, and they overflow, running down her cheeks in a rush.

“Why?” She sobs, making no move to wipe her tears. He smiles at her softly.

“Because I love you, my lady. With all that’s left of my murderous, lying, wretched heart.”

He knows her instinct will be to run and hide, and so he grasps her hand when she tries to step away. Curse all those men that hurt her, himself included. She is so wounded by those cruel jokes that she can’t bear his honest words. She doesn’t know if he is telling her the truth.

She doesn’t want to believe, because if it’s false then he is just using her as a consolating shoulder in the last hours of his life, adding to the scars she had suffered at the hands and words of men. And if it’s true, he is going to die in a few hours and nothing in the world can save him. And she doesn’t know which is worse.

He knows that. He understands.

But he is not letting go as she tries to shake his hand off. If she really wanted to, she could easily run away. He is no challenge to her. But she still struggles.

“It’s cruel of you to say that,” she rasps, and he looks down. It was selfish, he knows. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, she will be hurt. He should have kept his mouth shut and let her live the rest of her life wondering of might have beens. It’s less painful than knowing.

Knowing and watching him die.

“It’s the truth. I thought you liked truth,” he finds it in himself to smirk again. She flinched like he had hit her.

“I can’t…” She stops her struggle and just lets him hold her hand. “I can’t. If you won’t leave, the only way to make you live is to go with you and I can’t.”

“You made an oath. I get that. I’m not asking you to break an oath, I never will. All I’m asking is you being here for the last few hours. With me.”

“But…”

He lets go of her hand now that she is not trying to run, and puts his fingers on her lips, silencing her. They are chapped by the winter frost under his skin.

“You are overthinking this. Just be here. I… I came to enjoy your company during our travels together.”

She finally, _finally_ nods and sits down on the cold cot. He sits beside her, and they fall into an almost comfortable silence, his hip is pressed against hers, and his cold hand finds hers after a while. She doesn’t flinch away, and he finally feels whole again.

He is determined not to fall asleep to make the most of the short hours he has with her, but the feeling of safety and warmth of her body next to him makes his eyelids get heavier as the time passes. He puts his head on her shoulder and tells himself he will just rest his eyes for a bit.

When he opens them again, the pale morning light breaks through the barred window. She is still here, and by the look of it, she hasn't slept a second. Deep shadows lie under her weary blue eyes and she looks years older then she used to just the day before.

“It’s time,” she whispers, hoarse from the long silence. He nods, a pang of regret stabbing him in the chest. He slept through most of the time they could have had together. Wasted it.

“It’s time,” he echoes and rises from the cot, stiff and sore from an uncomfortable position. Before she can follow, however, he takes his chance and leans down to press a quick, chaste kiss to her cheek.

She stiffens, and for a second he thinks she might just hit him after all. But then she rises and walks out without another word, and he follows.

_It’s time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm breaking your heart... I regret nothing.
> 
> Let me know what you think, even if it's just curses or angry rant :3


End file.
